


I'm Glad It Wasn't You

by I_am_lampy



Series: After All These Years [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bossy Sherlock, First Time Blow Jobs, Fix-It of Sorts, Internalized Homophobia, John Loves Bossy Sherlock, John Loves Naughty Sherlock Too, Love Confessions, M/M, Naughty Sherlock, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 15:30:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10493928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: John finally confesses to Sherlock why he was so hateful to Sherlock after Mary's death.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place two years from now, so Sherlock and John have been friends for a decade. Two thirds of it is sweet and a third of it is smut because smut is why we're all here.

It was almost midnight when John and Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street after wrapping up a case with Lestrade.

"Mrs. H," John said gently, rubbing his hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder to wake her up. She had agreed to watch Rosie for him while he went with Sherlock to catch a killer.

"Oh, John!" she said, sitting up and looking around with wide blinking eyes. "What time is it?"

"It's almost midnight," John said. "Thank you so much for watching her. We didn't think it would take this long."

"Oh, it's fine! She's delightful. I put her down in Sherlock's room at half past eight," she said and then yawned. "If you boys will excuse me, I think I'll head downstairs to my own bed.

They made their goodbyes and she kissed each of her "boys" before leaving.

Sherlock was standing at the front window near the couch, looking down at Baker Street.

"I don't mind if the two of you stay here. It's far too late to have to wake her up and take her home," he said over his shoulder. His words were said casually but there was something in his voice that caused John's heart to flutter strangely.

"Uh, yeah. That's - thank you. I appreciate that. Yeah, I wasn't looking forward to getting her up. She would just fall back asleep on the ride home and then I would have to wake her up a second time. Are you sure, though?" John asked, rubbing his hands over his face. He was exhausted. 

"You know you're always welcome here," Sherlock said quietly. "I've never understood why you didn't just move in after - never mind. Of course you would want to stay in the house where you and Mary lived together."

"Sherlock," John said, his heart pounding wildly. "If you had asked - "

Sherlock turned away from the window in surprise.

"If I had asked?" he prompted.

John looked away and saw the chair he had sat in all those years. The chair currently in that spot wasn't his chair, of course. His chair had been destroyed when - during all the terrible events surrounding Sherrinford. He wanted to sit down in it but he was afraid of he moved that the spell between him and Sherlock would be broken.  _Something_ was happening - a door was opening and John was going to jump through it.

 _Tell him_ , he thought to himself.  _Just tell him!_

"Sherlock. Look at me," John said, surprised to hear his own voice. He had been urging himself to  _tell him_ for two or more years now but he hadn't.

Sherlock looked at him, well…he looked at John's shoulder. He hated trying to maintain eye contact when he was roiling with uncomfortable emotions like that. It felt too much like being held down against his will. John sighed in that way he had that meant he was trying to gather his thoughts. He was never adamant that Sherlock look him in the eyes. When John said _look at me_ , he meant _don't make me say this to your back because I want to be able to see your face, whether you look at mine or not_.

"Every time I look at you," John said. "I see the guilt in your eyes. You aren't guilty for anything, Sherlock. You're my best friend and ten years ago I had nothing and you gave me a new life. A wonderful life. I know that you feel guilty about Mary's death.

"But you're not to blame for any of it. Sherlock, you always put everything you possibly can into anything you set your mind to, whether it's a case or protecting the people you love. Nobody made Mary jump in front of the bullet that killed her. She made that choice. Not me and certainly not you.

"But I treated you like you had pulled the trigger. It wasn't because I thought you were to blame for her death. I should've told you this years ago. What I'm about to tell you is - it was hard for me to come to terms with and then after I'd come to terms with it, I didn't want to stir things up. I didn't want to bring up all those horrible memories. We had built our friendship back up. You had forgiven me for the way I had abused you all those months after Mary's death.

"I never explained _why_ I treated you that way. I asked for forgiveness and you blamed it on my grief and I let you keep that assumption. The truth, though, is that day in the aquarium as I held Mary as she died, I looked up at you and hated you because I was grateful it hadn't been  _you_.

"I was so ashamed of my own feelings that I couldn't look at you. I took it out on you in the most hateful way possible. You were the only person who could have helped me grieve but I didn't want to look at your face because when I did, I was ashamed knowing that if it had been me who chose who was to live and who was to die that day in the aquarium, I would've chosen you. I loved Mary, of course I did!

"But I loved you just a little bit more. The shame was…overwhelming. How could I look at our daughter - at mine and Mary's daughter - and think that I was _glad_ her mother had died, if it meant that you lived. I felt like there was something wrong with me. I couldn't stomach my shame. And I took it out on you in the most brutal way possible."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're saying, John," Sherlock said, his heart hammering against his rib cage, his palms sweating his breath hitching. There was never any chance of John returning his feelings. Never. He had spent a decade of his life keeping all of it buried; always careful not to get too close to John, always careful not to let his face show what he was feeling.

"I'm saying that I'm in love with you, Sherlock and I didn't tell you because I know you can't return my feelings and I didn't want to make things more strained than they already were. Our relationship has already been balancing on a razor's edge since Mary died and we didn't need anything else to come between us."

"I love you, too," Sherlock said, turning to look back out the window, not sure if he could face John without falling apart or launching himself into John's arms.

"I know that in your way you love me, Sherlock. But I'm talking about romantic love and you have always made it clear that you are not and never will be interested in romantic relationships. I accept that and I hope that my - "

"I mean," Sherlock said and turned around to face John, "That I am _in love_ with you, John."

John froze and turned his head so that he was looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes as though he needed to see Sherlock at a different angle. Then he closed his eyes, bowed his head, took a deep breath and looked up again.

"I'm sorry, are we - " he said and stopped. "After ten years, are the two of us saying…what I _think_ we're saying."

"God, I hope so," Sherlock said, looking at the ceiling. "Or I'm going to look like an absolute idiot when I kiss you."

"Do what now?" John said, watching Sherlock suspiciously as he walked closer to John until they were standing only a hand's width apart.

Sherlock lifted one hand, his eyes darting between his hand and John's face, his eyes not landing on John's for too long in case what he saw there stopped the path of his hand. He put his hand on John's cheek and when John closed his eyes and leaned into his hand, Sherlock thought he might die. It was almost too much. His body was pumping with adrenaline and his brain was on overload.

He brought his other hand up to cup John's other cheek and it was then that John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock.

"You're so little," Sherlock whispered in wonder and John laughed in that way he had that was almost silent. Sherlock smiled but his brain was screaming _kiss him before he runs away stop talking just kiss him my god you may never get another chance it's been a decade just - fucking - KISS HIM_

"I want to kiss you, John," Sherlock said. Despite his brain's insistence, he was not going to do anything to jeopardize this inchoate relationship of theirs.

"Okay, but I warn you. I don't know how to do this - with a man, that is. I've never - "

"I'm pretty sure kissing is one of those things that translates across all genders," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"I was talking about after," John said, blushing, which Sherlock found so utterly transfixing that he could barely breathe.

"After?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

"Sex, Sherlock. I'm talking about sex."

"You didn't let me finish," Sherlock said and dipped his head until his forehead was almost touching John's.

"Okay," John asked, looking terrified but desperate at the same time, as though his brain was also screaming _stop talking just kiss him_.

"Will you and Rosie move back in with me? Because I'm not going to kiss you and let myself believe that I can have everything I've wanted with you all these years if I'm not really going to have it. This isn't me experimenting with having sex with a man. This is me telling you that I love you and I have always loved you and I have always wanted to spend my life with you. And I know your first instinct is going to be to say _let me think about it_ but I don't want you to think about it. I want you to tell me right now whether you're coming back and bringing Rosie with you or if you're going to give yourself another chance to run."

The look on John's face was so close to breaking Sherlock's heart.

"Well, I can't just - "

"You can, John," Sherlock said. "I'm not willing to wait anymore. The two of us together, we can do whatever we want. There's nothing between us anymore, don't you see? I've made my decision. I'm all in. Either you're all in, too, or you're out."

Sherlock could see John's heart warring with his head.

"You said you hated yourself for being glad it was Mary and not me who died that day. Are you going to keep letting your idea of what you _ought_ to do or feel or what you _should_ do or feel, what you're _expected_ to do or feel - are you really going to stand here and tell me you're in love with me and then let all that stop you?"

John lowered his eyes. "You're right, I can't let - "

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's, unable to wait any longer. They were the both of them trembling, nervous, unsure. Sherlock had to stop himself from letting greed take over, from wrapping his arms around John and pressing their bodies together. Sherlock had no compunctions where sex was concerned but he had never had sex with either a woman or a man so he wasn't the one who had thirty years of a heterosexual identity to overcome. He didn't want to scare John off by doing any of the _many, many_ things he wanted to do to him.

Sherlock pulled back breathing hard and made himself take a step away from John. He kept his eyes on his feet.

"Since you brought up sex, I want to make it clear that I'm eager to explore all the options that a sexual relationship with you has. I understand that you may, as a heterosexual man, wish to avoid certain sexual - that you may not wish to participate in anal sex - 

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, do we have to talk about all this right now?" John asked, his voice sounding both hoarse and faint.

"No, but I - well, you mentioned sex. I thought perhaps you wished to talk about it."

"Right now, let's just sit down, right? Sit down and take a deep breath."

Sherlock sighed dramatically but Sherlock sat in his chair and watched, his heart stuttering, as John sat in his. He steepled his fingers underneath his chin and looked up at John.

"I'm not suggesting that we need to participate in any sexual activities right away, although I would like for you to know that I've wished for several years now to be able to do - well, um, many things. Yes. Many things, John." Sherlock cleared his throat and looked up at John who was looking at him in a way that made heat blossom in his gut.

"Many things, Sherlock?" John asked and laughed.

"Come now, John. Let's be adults about this. As you pointed out, we're no longer young men. There's no reason why we can't have a conversation about sex without resorting to infantile behavior."

"Well, if we're being adults, then I should probably point out that when you do your hands like that? It's so fucking hot my brain short-circuits."

Sherlock's eyes widened in astonishment and then he narrowed his eyes, "Really?"

"Oh, now don't you get that look in your eyes, you wily bastard."

Sherlock put the tips of his steepled fingers against his lips and lowered his head so that he was looking at John out from under his lashes and then slowly he slid his hands down so that his fingers dragged against his bottom lip. John inhaled sharply and looked at the mantle before blowing the air out of his mouth.

"Now that I've got your attention," Sherlock said, the smugness of his voice so thick it was almost tangible. "I'm willing to do however much or however little you're comfortable with. There are many things, as I said, that I want to enjoy with you and I - John, are you listening to me?"

"I am, yes. Of course. Of course I'm listening," John said, looking at Sherlock with his lips pulled in against his teeth. Then he shifted in his chair, tugging his shirt down and Sherlock got a brief glimpse of what was distracting John so much.

"John! Do you have an _erection_ just from watching me slide my fingers over my lips?" Sherlock asked, and the absolute glee in his voice, the pure delight, made John close his eyes and groan, realizing he had been depending on Sherlock's inexperience to keep the pace slow. Not that John _wanted_ it to be slow, necessarily.

Then Sherlock got up from his chair with his eyes narrowed, yet still unmistakably eager and reckless, and John said, "Nope. You go sit back down over there," but Sherlock ignored him and then when he was standing right in front of John, so close that his shins were touching John's knees, he put his hands on the arms of John's chair. He was looming over John, invading John's space, wanting to invade so much more.

"Maybe we should do some more kissing before we move on to anything more - rigorous," John said, his voice almost unrecognizable. It was raw and weak. It was true; Sherlock had undone him with only one small act, well, and that _walk_ over to John's chair, knowing the whole time what he was doing to him.

"I'm all for kissing," Sherlock said and leaned in and kissed him.

Suddenly his hair was tangled up in John's hands and his lips were pressed against John's and he opened his mouth eagerly, greedy for John's lips and tongue, for his teeth and hands. Sherlock had never kissed anyone before that night and he was glad he'd never tried it because it was hard, very hard, very, _very_ hard to stop with just kissing once it started to get really good. Once John's tongue was in his mouth and his teeth were nipping at Sherlock's lips, he found that what he had _thought_ was greed only a few minutes ago when he had first pressed his lips against John's had been nothing, _nothing_ compared to true greed.

He wanted his lips and hands to be all over John. He had seen plenty of pornography to know what sex looked and sounded like but pornography was cold and artificial. This was hot and wet and _real_ and had so much embedded meaning, so many years of longing piled up behind it that he had to remind himself he could not throw John onto his knees and fuck him on the sitting room floor. That was absolutely not to be allowed; never mind that there was a toddler in his bedroom who might wander out at any moment and catch them engaged in their licentiousness. But surely there was so much more that could be done in addition to the kissing without sex. The kissing itself was phenomenal. He felt he could do it for days and days. Who needed to eat or sleep or even _breathe_ when John's mouth was his for the taking, when John's hands were his, when John's body -

Sherlock pulled away from John, stepping back enough to get leverage and then he grabbed John by both wrists and tugged him up and into his arms.

"We can't have sex tonight, John, there's too much preparation to do and unfortunately, I'm very impatient right now. But I _will_ have you naked underneath me," he said, the command in his voice crystal clear, and began to unbutton John's shirt.

"Oh, you arrogant - " John began to say, his eyes narrowed but Sherlock cut him off.

"Shut up," Sherlock said. "Take your shirt off."

He didn't think it was possible to be even more excited but watching John rush to obey was heady stuff, like the best part of getting high.

"When you've got your shirt off, sit down and take off your shoes and then take your trousers and your pants off, too," Sherlock said and began unbuttoning his own shirt.

"Sherlock I - "

"When we're naked, John, I'm going to lay you down on this floor and I'm going to touch you. I have been waiting a very - long - time to touch you and I'm going to do it until you tell me to stop."

Then Sherlock sat down in his chair, pulled off his own shoes and socks and then stood up and rid himself of his clothes, his hunger not betraying itself in fumbling fingers. He saw John's eyes go to his erection and linger there for a moment, taking it in. Sherlock knew that in theory size was important but he'd only ever seen naked men when they were in pornography or in the morgue and he was pretty confident neither of those situations was an accurate representation of the average man's penis size.

When John was naked, Sherlock let his gaze linger on him until Sherlock could see it was making him uncomfortable and then he took the two steps needed to reach John before he was pulling him down on the floor and climbing over him, one knee between John's legs, keeping carefully away from his testicles. He propped himself on his hands, one on either side of John's head.

"I rather like you on the bottom," Sherlock growled, sounding nothing like himself to his own ears.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said, his eyes closing briefly before opening.

Sherlock lowered himself to his elbows and kissed John, their kisses immediately hungry and impatient. Sherlock scraped his teeth across John's jaw and down to his neck.

"Do you want me to stop?" he murmured against John's throat.

"No," John whispered, or gasped, Sherlock couldn't tell.

He dragged his tongue and his teeth down until he reached the hollow of John's throat where he fought the urge to bite hard and instead tugged gently at John's skin with his teeth. Then he made his way back up John's throat to his chin and his lips. John's mouth opened eagerly under his, desperately even. Sherlock moved one hand down until he had his hand splayed across John's hip.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, pulling back to look at John's face.

John shook his head, his eyes impossibly dark and heavy with lust.

Sherlock skimmed his palm up John's side and then over his chest and down towards his stomach. He stopped with his hand splayed over John's stomach. Sherlock slowed his touch, watching John's eyes as he dragged his palm very slowly down John's abdomen and stopped right before his fingers would have combed through the dark tangle of John's pubic hair.

"Do you want me to stop?" Sherlock asked and this time it was he who was gasping.

In answer John's hips thrust up and Sherlock wasted no time wrapping his hand around the base of John's cock.

"Can I put my mouth on you, John?" he asked, wanting to dominate but also eager to please. He didn't think the two were necessarily mutually exclusive but it paid to be cautious in this endeavor.

"Really - are you sure?" John asked, his voice scraped raw like he had been screaming.

"John," Sherlock said, giving him a mock stern glare. "I've been sure for many, many years."

"Well, then. I would - yes," John said and thrust his hips up again.

In answer, Sherlock bent his head and ran his tongue around the head of John's cock. The sounds coming out of John were more beautiful to Sherlock's ears than the music he drew out of his violin.

Now that he was thinking about it, making love to John, even if it was only with his mouth, was exactly like playing the violin. It was just a thing until he picked it up and drew the music out of it, one stroke of the bow, one scrape of the horsehair across the strings at a time. Sherlock was, among many talents, a master musician.

If John's cock was the violin, then Sherlock's mouth was the bow. God, he could do amazing things with this metaphor. He could entertain himself for hours sucking John's cock and imagining it singing like his violin. Or at least imagining John singing like his violin.

He wondered if everyone's brain wandered like this when they were performing oral sex on someone.

He used the tip of his tongue to lick John from the base to the head, which he sucked into his mouth. He tasted something salty and heard John moan and then realized it wasn't John moaning - well, at least, John wasn't the _only_ one moaning. He had expected to like giving John pleasure. He had never expected to receive physical pleasure himself from the act. He had assumed it would be uncomfortable and invasive, having someone's penis in his mouth but he found that his own half hard penis was well on its way to being fully hard.

He pushed his lips further down John's length which seemed daunting; there was no way he would ever get it all the way in his mouth. Suddenly he felt John's fingers pushing their way through his hair, then fisting it and tugging, not ungently, and Sherlock let out another sound of pleasure, this one downright pornographic. He heard his name coming out of John's mouth with a sort of keening sound rushing behind it and without knowing he was going to do it he stretched his lips and pushed his mouth all the way down the length of John's penis until his nose touched pubic hair and the head hit the back of Sherlock's throat.

He fought the urge to gag and instead pulled back slightly. He was beginning to wish he had watched a video on how to suck cock. He was just going to have to play it by ear, no pun intended. Who was he kidding. That pun was _totally_ intended.

Suddenly he wasn't just aroused and eager to please John, nor was he just discovering he could receive physical pleasure having John's penis in his mouth, he was having _fun_ too. Why hadn't anyone told him sex was fun? Oh. Wait. They probably had and he had ignored them. Well, it was better this way. John was his first everything and that was how he wanted it.

He brought his lips back up, circling the head of John's penis while keeping it in his mouth and then he tongued the slit at the top, something salty teasing his tongue. Then he was plunging back down again and John was fisting his hair again and saying his name in _that way_ that made Sherlock want to thrust himself against John's leg.

He learnt how to flatten his tongue to keep from gagging when John's cock was all the way in his mouth. He picked up a rhythm that made John groan and pant and quicker than he would have thought, John's thighs were clenching and he was saying _Sherlock, stop, stop_

" - stop, Sherlock!"

Sherlock stopped his up and down rhythm and opened his mouth before lifting his head. "Why do you want me to stop?"

"Because I'm about to come," John said, his voice so hoarse, Sherlock almost couldn't understand him.

"Isn't that the point, John?"

"Well, yes, but. Not in your mouth."

"Why not in my mouth?" Sherlock asked, squinting his eyes. What was he missing? "Do you not like the idea of coming in my mouth?" Sherlock asked.

John's head fell back against the floor with an audible thud. "Jesus, no. Yes, I mean. _Yes_ , God, I bloody _love_ the idea of coming in your mouth it's just that I've had it on good authority that being the one whose mouth is - being, you know - come _into_ \- isn't pleasant."

"Hm," Sherlock said, thinking. Then, "Let's do it my way and then if I don't like it, we'll do it another way. Okay?"

"Just to be sure - because, once it starts, Sherlock, I can't stop it - you want me to come in your mouth?"

"Yes, John. I thought we just established that. Don't be tedious."

"Oh, you just wait, you arrogant git. I'd like to see how well _you_  can think when it's my lips wrapped around your cock and me offering to milk you dry," John said and then seemed to realize what he had said. His eyes widened and then he licked his lips and Sherlock knew - oh, he _knew_ \- that it would be really _not nice_ to tease John in this moment but the fact that something was _not nice_ had never stopped him before.

"John, are you telling me that you want to reciprocate? While you're coming in my mouth I want you to imagine me doing the same to you. I want you to imagine your lips sliding down my length and your tongue working its way around the head of my penis and my semen jetting into the back of _your_ throat."

And then he took John all the way in again, all the way to the back of his throat, picking up his rhythm again until John's thighs were clenching underneath him and then he heard his name followed by a few naughty words and then something slightly warmer than the temperature of his mouth, bitter and thick, skipped across his tongue and he swallowed instinctively. It tasted terrible but John wasn't done yet and Sherlock had to swallow again and then _again_. He wasn't sure when to stop but he slowed down and loosened his lips and John jerked once, twice and then put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and pushed against it and Sherlock let him loose.

He pushed himself to his knees and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, staring down at John. He knew that John was not traditionally handsome and he was a small and compact man, not at all the kind of man considered virile or sexy by the standards of many women. Sherlock was the one all the women wanted.

There was only one person Sherlock wanted, though, and that was John and Sherlock thought he was absolutely stunning. His face and chest and arms were flushed and he was breathing hard, drawing air sharply in and out of his lungs. One of his hands was laying across his stomach and the other was on the floor alongside his body, his first clenched.

"You're lucky I have a memory palace, otherwise I would be taking your picture," Sherlock said, and laid himself down next to John.

"Don't you dare," John said, but his voice was soft, and it lacked bite.

Sherlock propped himself on his side so he could look at John, who turned his head to look back.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock asked, and bent to kiss John's shoulder.

"Thank you. That was _amazing_ ," John said and sighed in a way that made Sherlock's heart ache.

"I'm a fast learner," Sherlock said and then they were laughing, their laughter quickly turning into desire and they kissed again with eager mouths.

Later, they made a little bed for Rosie on the floor of Sherlock's room and Sherlock lifted her gently out of his bed and laid her down on her nest of towels and blankets and covered her up again. Then he and John made themselves decent and climbed into Sherlock's bed together and Sherlock pulled John up against him, his front to John's back and squeezed him, so happy he could have wept.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I always welcome emails from readers to discuss anything about my stories or Sherlock in general or even anything else that makes you think "hm, it would be really fun to talk to Teddy about this."
> 
> archiveofMYown@gmail.com (like instead of "our" it's my"
> 
> Teddy


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